


let me be your ruler

by twocankeepasecret



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi, New York City, got meets gossip girl, upper east side socialite verse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2015-01-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 19:56:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1238914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twocankeepasecret/pseuds/twocankeepasecret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Jon Arryn's funeral, and everyone who's anyone is going to be in attendance. But when the wealthy and elite all converge in one place, betrayals are committed, hearts are broken, and secrets come to light- and it just so happens that Upper East Side Princess Sansa Stark is keeping the biggest secret of the decade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. it had to be you

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Modern AU (based heavily on a recent binge-read of Gossip Girl), and though there will be some spoilers from the books, this story does not follow the canon story line. Though not all of the main characters have been introduced all of this chapter, all of the characters and ships tagged will show up soon, and there are certainly more to come.
> 
> If you have any questions or comments about the fic so far, you can always ask me on my tumblr, threecankeepasecret!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spotted: S and A shopping for Jon Arryn's upcoming funeral. Surprise, surprise, darling S: it looks like former BFF M is coming back to town. Is S thrilled to be reunited with the city's golden girl, or is that jealousy I see in those blue, blue eyes?

“Do we have to go to Jon Arryn’s funeral?”

Sansa rolled her eyes. Arya may have been fourteen, but she could be such a child. Even standing in the middle of Barney’s, she looked terribly immature: her hair was gathered into a tangled ponytail, there was a tear down the arm of her Mackage jacket, and her Converse—Converse, of all things!—were still stained with slush from the previous year. Really, Arya had absolutely no sense of decorum, or respectability—Joff’s sister Myrcella was still in middle school, but she would never be seen looking such a mess.

“Of course we have to go to Jon Arryn’s funeral,” sniffed Sansa. “He was one of father’s closest friends—and besides, he was the Baratheon’s CFO for twenty years. Have some respect.”

“She says, while using his funeral as an opportunity to buy a thousand-dollar dress,” Arya murmured. Sansa ignored her, plucking a black RED Valentino off of a rack and holding it up to herself.

“I think this would really work for me,” she said. “It’s perfectly modest and appropriate, but the lace and frills add a feminine touch, don’t you think?” She spun on her heel, evaluating herself in a mirror. “It’s a shame black isn’t my colour.”

“Nice job defending your case,” said Arya. Sansa caught the eye of a sales associate and had the dress added to her changing room, then turned toward her sister.

“Your turn,” she stated. Arya groaned. Sansa rarely understood her sister at the best of times, but she never, ever understood Arya’s reluctance to shop. It wasn’t although she had to budget.

 “Sansa, I already have a black dress.”

“And you already wore it to Aunt Lyanna’s memorial service. Two years ago.” Sansa sighed. Arya was so obtuse. “It’s not like I’m making you wear stillettos! Come on, now, we’ll find you something nice.”

“I have something nice,” said Arya under her breath, picking at the dirt underneath her fingernails. Sansa wrinkled her nose. If Arya had to compulsively bite her nails, she could have at least put in the effort to keep them clean, rather than letting them serve as a Petri dish.

“It’s not a crime to own multiple nice things, Arya,” said Sansa, grabbing Arya’s wrist. “Now, either you’ll come pick out a new dress with me, or I’ll tell mother that you’ve been cutting class to hook up with a Brooklynite—“

“Okay, okay!” Arya trudged along behind Sansa with an astounding lack of enthusiasm. “But I’m not wearing anything girly.”

“Oh, what a shame, I thought we’d pick you out an Alice + Olivia,” Sansa said dryly. “Please. I’m a snob, not a moron.”

Arya rolled her eyes as Sansa led her to a rack of Alexander McQueens. “I don’t see much of a difference,” she said.

. . .

“Sansa! Sansa!”

Like a benevolent queen greeting her adoring subjects, Sansa flipped her hair over her shoulder and graced Jeyne and Elinor with a smile.

“Hi, Sansa,” said Jeyne. “And, um, Arya! Hey.”

Arya glared at her for a moment. Without breaking eye contact, she deliberately placed an earbud in each ear, and continued to glare until Jeyne shot Sansa a pleading look.

“Hey, dolls,” Sansa said coyly. She tried for a playful shrug, but the massive Barneys bag was weighing her down. Where was a girl’s limo when she needed it? “Any news?”

Elinor seemed poised to speak, but Jeyne beat her to it. “Margaery Tyrell is in town for the funeral,” she told her, in a single breath.

Sansa kept her features locked in a smile, as though the words hadn’t knocked the air out of her, and tried to stop her mind from flooding with images of _that night_ , Margaery’s curly brown locks, black La Perla lingerie strewn across the suite, shot after shot of tequila. “Of course she is,” she said, with a sage nod. “All of the Tyells should be attending. Garlan is probably coming in from Duke, too.”

“So she told you?” asked Elinor.

Of course she hadn’t. Margaery and Sansa hadn’t shared a word since _that night_. “You sound so surprised, El,” Sansa said instead. A fierce, ugly blush crept up Elinor’s cheeks, and Sansa felt a pang of guilt. “I don’t blame you,” she said quickly. “She hasn’t been to the city since, like, New Year’s. Don’t worry about it.” To her infinite relief, the limo chose that moment to pull up alongside them. She kissed the girls on both cheeks, then slid through the open door.

Arya joined her, scowling. “Why do you even hang out with them, again?”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Just because you don’t like them doesn’t mean they aren’t my friends, Arya. I know that comes as a surprise to you, since you don’t associate with people who live above 50th, but I like them.”

“They’re not your friends,” said Arya. She whipped her head toward Sansa, her long ponytail flying out behind her, then looked back out the window with an even nastier scowl. “Margaery’s your friend,” she said. “Dany is your friend. The Manderly sisters are your friends—even Arianne is your friend, as long as Joff’s grandfather is out of town. Those other girls are just groupers.”

“You shouldn’t call people groupers, Arya, that is so rude,” said Sansa.

“What? They are!” exclaimed Arya. “They’re like greedy little fish, perusing the ocean floor for any scraps thrown their way—“

Sansa couldn’t help it; she laughed. Beside her, Arya grinned, and the limo finally pulled forward as the light turned green.

. . .

Through the door of her bedroom, she could hear her brother ranting at Jorah. “I refuse!” he was screaming. “I refuse! Robert _motherfucking_ Baratheon doesn’t own me, and I am not getting on a plane to New York for his bullshit CFO’s bullshit funeral!”

“I’ve never heard him this angry before,” Irri whispered to her. “Do you need to come to my place for the night?”

Dany forced out a laugh. “It’s fine, he gets like this pretty often. Jorah’s probably staying the night, he’ll calm Viserys down. He always does.”

Irri frowned, bending down again to paint her next toenail. “I’m worried about you. One of these days, he’s going to crack.” She paused, dipping the brush back into the nail polish bottle. “He should talk to someone.”

“You think we’ve never tried that?” asked Dany. “It was okay when we were still young, but he’s an adult now. No one can make him do anything.” She frowned. “Rhaegar probably could have, if he were still alive,” she admitted, “but now all he has is Jorah, and he doesn’t respect Jorah nearly as much.”

Jorah had been a part of their lives ever since Viserys had gotten involved with a local gang, which wasn’t long after they’d been all but exiled to Miami by the Baratheons. Their leader, Drogo, had always had a thing for Dany, which was kind of flattering now, but was creepy when she’d been thirteen and Viserys had tried to plan her a future as a mob wife. Luckily for her, Drogo had backed off when he realized she was a kid, and not in college like he’d initially thought. People tended to make that mistake when you started wearing a bra at nine.

Irri started on the other foot. “Do you think you’ll end up going to the funeral?” she asked.

“Me? Yeah, probably. Viserys? Who knows.”

“You’d go without him?” asked Irri. A little crease appeared between her brows, as it always did when she was worried about Dany. Dany thought it was the sweetest thing.

“I think Sansa told her parents I’m coming,” Dany told her. “Viserys might hate every single person on the Upper East Side, but Mr. Stark scares him, so I doubt he’s going to object.” As though on cue, her phone beeped, and a Facebook message popped up on her screen.

_Sansa: please tell me ur coming????_

After Dany and Viserys left New York when she was eight, she hadn’t expected to have any ties to the city. They moved from place to place, testing the waters in Baltimore, Atlanta, and Jacksonville before settling in Miami. She could barely remember her Wall Street brat childhood when she’d received a friend request from Sansa when she was thirteen. At first, she’d assumed Sansa was just trying to seem more popular on her profile, but she’d been proven wrong when Sansa messaged her right away, flipping out that she’d had no idea if Dany was even alive and sending so many exclamation marks she should have broken the key. Two months later, Sansa had wrangled Dany’s address and phone number out of her, and Eddard Stark was calling her house to invite Dany on their two-week trip to Disneyworld.

_Sansa: please please please i need you there_

_Sansa: it’s an emergency_

_Sansa: margaery’s coming i need you_

Dany checked the message three times. Margaery Tyrell? It wasn’t surprising, by any means, but that hadn’t even occurred to her. She called Sansa right away, putting her on speakerphone. Sansa picked up on the first ring.

“Is Viserys letting you come?” was the first thing out of her mouth.

“I don’t know yet, he’s kind of pissed about it,” Dany told her truthfully. “By the way, Irri’s here.”

“Hey,” said Sansa. She and Irri had met last summer in Boca Raton. “But seriously, you have to be there, I’m literally going to die. I’ll book you a ticket and have a room made up for you and everything, I can get a limo to take you to MIA. You have to come.”

“I’ll come, I’ll come,” said Dany. “This is going to be so fucked up, though. Have you even talked to Margaery since… you know, since thing?”

“No,” whined Sansa. “No, oh my god, Willas had his accident the next day and she was gone. I didn’t even text her, like, what the fuck to I say? I don’t even know what she remembers, we were both rolling in it—“

“Chill, Sans. She probably remembers everything you remember.”

Sansa moaned. “What god did I offend to deserve this?”

“Relax, it’ll all be fine,” said Dany. “We can go out and get sloppy drunk that night.” She paused, then grinned. “What were you saying about that limo?”

. . .

“Really, darling, I’m thinking the gold Louboutins are the way to go. Red and gold, just like your mother and uncle and grandfather. You are a lion, aren’t you?”

Myrcella sighed, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing a lacy black dress her mother had deliberately picked out a size too small from Burberry. One one foot, she wore a dark blue Dior pump, and on the other, the gold Louboutin heel in question. The shoes were gorgeous, of course—you didn’t pay $1500 for _shit_ quality, after all—but there was something sincerely wrong about wearing them to a funeral.

“They’re really not respectful, though,” she said, keeping her voice as mild as she could. In the mirror, her mother scowled behind her.

“We did not respect Jon Arryn in life,” Cersei said, her voice almost a growl, “and we will not start respecting him in death. You’d do well to remember that, dear.” She walked up to Myrcella, all long legs and California tan and too much cleavage for fall in New York, and laid her hands on Myrcella’s shoulders. Her grip was only a little too tight.

Myrcella sighed. “I don’t know, I just—” An idea came to her. “I don’t want to wear red soles with a black dress,” she said. One of her mother’s perfect eyebrows raised. “From the back, I’ll look like a Targaryen.”

Her mother took a step back and looked her over appraisingly. She retreated to the bed and sat on it, gazing at Myrcella with her too-sharp gaze. “You do have a point there, love.”

“By the way,” continued Myrcella, encouraged, “did you know that Dany Targaryen is coming to the service?”

That did the trick. Cersei shot straight up, her eyes ablaze. Her mother hated most people and most things, especially younger, prettier girls with equally pretty names, but none more than Daenerys Targaryen. It had taken a while, but eventually, she had even surpassed Margaery Tyrell in her mother’s list of worst people alive.

“She’s coming to Manhattan?” she asked, her voice low and dangerous. Myrcella hated when her mother got like this, but she’d provoked it on purpose, so she stood her ground and tried to match her mother’s fierce glare.

“Yeah, Sansa just told me.” She made sure not to mention that Sansa was the one who invited her.

Cersei’s snarl was something to behold. “That little cunt,” she said. Myrcella didn’t know which of the girls she was talking about; Dany, whom she’d wanted dead for years; Sansa, who she hated despite her façade of mentorship; or Myrcella herself. She stood perfectly still for a few seconds, then swept out of the room, her hair flying out behind her like a banner.

A minute later, she popped her head back in.

“Oh, and Cella, dear?” she said, her voice sickly sweet.

“Yes, mother?” asked Myrcella, hiding her rising sense of dread.

“Do be sure to skip dessert tonight. You look as though you hardly fit into that dress as it is.” With that, Cersei Lannister strode from the room with all the regality of a queen. Myrcella could not have loved or hated her more.

 

 


	2. nobody does it better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spotted: Everyone's who's anyone at Jon Arryn's funeral. Is it just me, or does this feel more like an A-lister gala than a solemn occasion to mourn the dead? S and D are being flighty, A is in a terrible mood, and M is making her grand return to the city that never sleeps: I smell D-R-A-M-A! In typical Upper East Side fashion, no one can say what they mean but everyone means what they say. I can't wait for the fallout.

Of course Brienne had attended her fair share of funerals—she was twenty-seven years old, you didn’t live that long without seeing at least a _few_ people you knew dying—but never in her experience had a funeral been anything but a modest, solemn occasion, in a small church or funeral home, where demure guests exchanged quiet condolences with bowed heads. People were their most polite, their most gracious, when attending funerals, and everyone was uncharacteristically sincere.

Jon Arryn’s funeral was shaping up to be quite different.

Of course everyone was dressed in black, and no one appeared to be particularly happy, but there was something incredibly showy about the funeral’s massive venue, the perimeter of hors d’oeuvres lining the reception area, the trays of champagne flutes being passed around, or the twenty-odd camera men filming the proceedings. So far, the only person who seemed truly sorrowful was Eddard Stark—Robert Baratheon should have been more solemn, but he was into his fourth or fifth glass of wine, and even sober he had no concept of an indoor voice.

Behind her, someone spoke. “Is this reception offending your precious honour?”

She groaned. “You shouldn’t make jokes at a funeral,” she told Jaime Lannister, turning to meet his laughing eyes. “It’s very… improper.”

“Improper? Me?” Jaime’s eyes widened comically. “Please, come on. I’m the picture of dignity.”

“It seems dignity bears more than a passing resemblance to an asshole,” Brienne told him. Jaime laughed, then, drawing more than a few scandalized glances.

“An asshole!” he exclaimed. “Now who’s being improper?” Brienne didn’t deign to answer, so Jaime stepped in closer, grabbing two champagne flutes from a passing tray. She refused the offered drink with a single raised eyebrow, and he shrugged, downing them each in a single gulp.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I’d love to stay and chat, of course, but I’m afraid I’ve got a better offer.” He swept away. Brienne had to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. She didn’t understand Jaime Lannister, she thought, watching him place a hand at his sister’s back in a mockery of solemn grief. When she’d first interned with him during grad school, he’d made a point of loudly complaining about her whenever she was in earshot. But that had been three years ago, and though she was sure he would never admit it, he seemed to seek her out constantly, only to pretend he’d never wanted to speak with her in the first place.

It didn’t really matter why he was always so strange around her, to be fair. For all his charm and bravado, Jaime Lannister was a Class A moron, and always would be.

. . .

Arya groaned, picking at the hem of her stupid new black dress. Today hadn’t been the absolute _worst_ thing in the world, but that was just because Dany was there, and Dany usually had the absolute best stories about Miami, gang fights and raves and parties on the beach, which sounded nothing like the snobby Upper East Side parties Sansa dragged her to from time to time. The service had been really boring and really depressing, but at least Arya got why they had to sit through it. This whole reception business, on the other hand, was total freaking bullshit. To make matters worse, Sansa and Dany seemed to be on some sort of agenda, randomly darting across the room and inserting themselves into conversations they couldn’t possibly be interested in. And plus, Arya still wasn’t sure why Sansa hadn’t said hi to Margaery yet. She knew her sister had seen her, and even though Arya wasn’t Margaery’s biggest fan in the world, she knew better than anyone that she and Sansa had been the BFFs to end all BFFs until Margaery had left for school.

She said as much to Sansa, and Sansa’s ears went tomato red. A second later, she’d spun around, seized a glass of champagne from a passing waiter, and shoved said glass into Arya’s hand.

Arya peered up at her. “Are you… buying my silence with alcohol?”

“No!” exclaimed Sansa. She paused. “Is it working?”

Arya rolled her eyes and took a sip of the champagne. It was Veuve Clicquot—she and Sansa both preferred Dom, (one of the few things they agreed upon), but Arya knew Veuve Clicquot to be the preferred bubbly of the Lannisters, just as she knew that the entire funeral reception was paid for by one of their black cards.

“Yeah, whatever,” she told Sansa. “Have you guys seen Jon? I’m bored of you.”

Sansa and Dany both nodded in the same direction and Arya took off, stomping toe-first in the dumb girly Manolo’s her mom had insisted she wear—at least Sansa, for all her flaws, accepted leather jackets and combat boots, citing them as ‘edgy’. She had to wear her hair down, which was even worse, because it meant she’d had to brush it that morning and blow it out of her face ever since. Her mother had even made her take off the McQueen skull ring Sansa had bought her last Christmas, which she wore _every single day_. She huffed, sidestepping a waiter, and crashed right into Margaery freaking Tyrell.

Most girls Arya knew were very pretty – Upper East Siders tended to be able to afford to spend thousands on makeup, acne cream, and rhinoplasty—but Margaery Tyrell, though Arya was loath to admit it, was quite literally breathtaking. Arya wasn’t the type to linger on appearances, but as she stumbled back from the bodily impact and looked up at Margaery’s face, her breath caught in her throat. Margaery’s brown hair seemed to curl even more softly, and was alit with golden highlights Arya almost believed were from the sun. Her perfect complexion was glowing with a gentle tan, her lips pouted even more perfectly, and she’d almost definitely gained a cup size since Arya’s last seen her. Her perfect lips split into a perfect grin, and she beamed.

“Arya!” she said, her voice soft and songlike. She bent down, placing her hands on Arya’s shoulders—it would have been patronizing coming from anyone else. “Hey, how are you? It’s been forever!”

“Fine,” Arya replied. “How are you?”

“I’m pretty good,” Margaery said with a grin, like dawn breaking after the Long Night. “Boarding school’s been really… different, I guess.”

“Well, you don’t look any worse for the wear,” Arya replied, adjusting the way she was holding her champagne glass, like Margaery’s presence was compelling her to be more graceful or something. She was suddenly, keenly aware of her stubby, unpolished nails. “Clearly you’ve been keeping New Hampshire’s tanning beds in business,” she continued, and swallowed down two long gulps of champagne.

Margaery laughed. “They love me in there,” she said. This was the thing that made Margaery so likeable, no matter how much Arya criticized everything she stood for—when she was faking something, she owned it. She owned the extensions she got in grade seven, she owned the fake nails she’d sported for a year and a half, and she owned her regular presence in tanning salons. If Arya asked, she’d probably own her new highlights. It was like a breath of fresh air after a year of Jeyne Poole lying about her push-up bras and veneers—everything about Margaery was like a breath of fresh air, in some weirdly poetic way.

Arya rolled her eyes, and Margaery spoke again. “You look so great!” she exclaimed, seizing Arya around the waist. “You’ve grown at least two inches since Christmas—and yes, that is taking your heels into account. Seriously, why are you wearing those, though? They’re so not like you.”

Arya grinned despite herself. “Try telling that to my mother,” she retorted. “You know what she’s like.”

Margaery giggled. “Oh, Catelyn,” she said, her tone wistful. “Where is she, anyway? I should say hi to her—” suddenly her face fell, and she bit her bottom lip. “Is Sansa here?” she asked. “I’m sure I saw her at the service, but I haven’t caught sight of her since.”

Arya didn’t know why her sister was being a sketch-and-a-half, but she’d been bribed with champagne, so she knew what to do. “I’m pretty sure she has a thing tonight. She might have left early, I haven’t seen her since the reception started either.” Then, just to play good sister, she added: “I’ll let her know you were looking for her, though. When do you head back to Highgarden again?”

Margaery smiled. She looked shy—except shyness wasn’t part of Margaery’s range of emotions, so Arya surmised she was feeling nervous instead. “About that,” she said, “I’m… actually not going back to New Hampshire. I’m moving back full-time.”

“What?” Arya blurted out. “I mean, really? Why?” She could hear her mother’s voice rebuking her for prying, but she didn’t care.

“I… kind of got kicked out,” Margaery said, boggling Arya’s mind. “Prank gone wrong—it’s really not worth telling the story.”

“I really doubt that, but okay, don’t tell me,” Arya said. “Anyway, have you seen Jon?”

Margaery frowned. “We’re at his funeral, Arya. He’s kind of… unavailable right now.”

Arya rolled her eyes. “No, not that Jon, my Jon, Jon Stark,” she said. “Lord Snow, you know. Your first kiss? Mopey hair?”

Margaery blushed prettily. “Oh, duh,” she said. “Um…” she started to scan the room, which Arya realized was probably a bad idea.

“Oh, never mind. There he is!” Arya said, very fast. “Itwassogoodtoseeyoubye.” She half-sprinted away, then crouched under the coffee table and whipped out her phone.

 _Ran into MT,_ she sent Sansa. _Looking 4 u._

She hesitated, then typed, _she’s staying in ny._

She rose to her feet, and, having done her sisterly duty, resumed her search for Jon.

. . .

Margaery watched Arya bolt away, allowing her face to fall only when she was out of sight.

She’d been so sure that Sansa would be just as excited to see her as she was to see Sansa. Even after getting kicked out of school, she hadn’t been sad for a minute. Her father had flown her home, and she’d spent the entire plane ride daydreaming about resuming her life in New York. She and Sansa would rent a suite at the Palace the night she arrived, of course, and then proceed to spend the evening tossing back cocktails at Trouble’s Trust until they could barely stumble up the Grand Staircase, giggling the whole way. They’d order room service pizza and marathon _Kardashian_ reruns until they were sober enough to shower together, like they’d done since they were kids, and then they’d fall asleep together, still naked, on the King bed. The next morning they’d be so hungover they could barely call down for breakfast. Five minutes before their food was supposed to arrive, they’d hurriedly throw on bathrobes and brush their teeth, and then pretend to watch the morning news while they ate. To cope with their hangovers, they’d spend the entire next day at the spa, nibbling on biscotti and lying in the hot tubs between their various massages and facials and pedicures, until they had to head back home as late as they could get away with. The next day, they’d meet up in Central Park for cappuccinos and cigarettes (for Margaery, at least—Sansa had tried once and promptly thrown up). And after school, they’d shop their way down Fifth until closing time.

The last thing she’d expected was that Sansa wouldn’t even want to see her. Maybe she felt awkward that they hadn’t seen each other since that night, but they’d been best friends since birth—it wasn’t like they couldn’t talk about it. And it hurt to think that Sansa was so embarrassed she wouldn’t even face her. Sure, it was kind of awkward in that wow-we-were-hammered way, but they’d done some really humiliating stuff while wasted, and Margaery didn’t think it even made the top ten. Not to mention that Margaery had almost hoped… well, it was probably just made worse by the fact that they hadn’t spoken in months, and it was true that a funeral reception was a weird place for that conversation. She’d give Sansa a call that night, arrange to get drinks at the Tribeca Grand or something, and they could have a proper heart-to-heart.

“Everything ok?” asked Willas behind her. Margaery smiled back at him, and he made his way towards her on his crutches. She and Loras might have been as thick as thieves, but Willas was above and beyond the sweetest and kindest of her brothers, the one they all went to when they had a problem. She knew she could have told him everything that was running through her head and he would have listened without interruption, but instead she smiled. She didn’t have any problems to tell him about. She didn’t have any problems.

“Everything is going to be perfect,” she told him, meaning every word.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait- I'm doing my best with senior year on my back!


	3. you're the one that I want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spotted: S and D stumbling back home after a long night of drinking, with M nowhere to be seen. If you ask me, there are some serious avoidance behaviors going on with darling S! Hope your hangover doesn't keep you inside all day, doll, because your drama is turning out to be the best part of my week.

_Margaery’s Chloé perfume clinging to her sweaty skin, her lips sweet and soft on Sansa’s, her dark hair, the darkest it had ever been, tickling at Sansa’s shoulders, Margaery’s eyelashes fluttering against her cheek, Margaery’s black bra strap between Sansa’s fingers, Margaery, Margaery…_

“The fuck did you just kick me for?”

Sansa’s eyes shot open to meet Dany’s startled gaze. “What?” Her sheets were covered in sweat and her hair felt like a rat’s nest on her head and… yep, her heel was pressed into Dany’s shin. “Oh. Oops.” She rolled away, bumping into an empty bottle of Dom, and then flopped on her back.

Dany rolled towards her. “Oh, fuck. Your sheets are wet as shit.” She propped herself up on one elbow. “Did you have a sex dream? With me in the bed? I’m flattered—unless it was a nightmare? Wait, please tell me you don’t spastically kick people in your sex dreams. Unless that’s some weird kink of yours, in which case, please don’t tell me that either—“

Sansa slammed a pillow down over Dany’s head. “You’re such a freak,” she said, laughing. “Oh my God, Dany, get out of my life, I love you.”

Dany grinned. “Seriously, though, these sheets are gross.” She pulled the comforter off of the floor, lay it over the bed, and then climbed on top of it. “You need a cold shower.”

“For my sex dream or my hangover?” asked Sansa. She took one anyways, her skin still tingling at an all-too-high temperature. _Margaery, Margaery, Margaery…_

She emerged in a towel to find Dany sorting through her trash can. As soon as Dany noticed her, she started waving empathetically toward a pile of crap. “This!” she exclaimed. “This is all recyclable! Oh my God, Sansa, what are you doing with your life?”

Sansa laughed, and then proceeded to completely ignore her. She dropped the towel on the floor and stood on it, surveying her walk-in closet until she could find appropriate loungewear to flop around in until she could deign to get dressed. She threw a silk shorts-and-cami combination over her shoulder at Dany, and then pulled on her own La Perla nightgown and robe.

“You’re not selecting one of those eyeball covering sleep things to wear on your head, are you?” came Dany’s voice. “Oh, Jesus Christ, you totally are.” Sansa felt something fabric-y whip at her legs, and looked down to see a pair of inside-out sweatpants. “Get over your life, Sansa.”

Sansa selected an eyeball covering sleep thing approximately five minutes later. “I’m ready,” she announced, positioning it on her head. “How to I look?”

“Like a spoiled fucking brat,” Dany announced. “Thank God you’re ready, I need food, like, yesterday.”

They returned upstairs fifteen minutes later with microwaved pancakes, a package of gluten-free chocolate chips, orange juice, two champagne flutes, and a bottle of Veuve Cliquot.

“I seriously don’t understand why you people are supposed to be classy,” Dany announced, scraping the melted chocolate chips out of the plastic bag and onto her pancake like it was Nutella. “Everyone else in the world does the exact same shit, just on a much lower budget.”

Sansa was silent, and Dany rolled her eyes. “Please don’t be thinking that Margaery doesn’t do the same shit. Please, for the love of God.”

“She is classy, though,” Sansa said softly. “She’s so… different.” An image of Margaery, wearing Sansa’s exact nightgown, lounging on a balcony in Paris with a cigarette between her fingers, picking at a croissant and sipping at a _café au lait_ , rose up from her memories. They’d only been fourteen at the time, but Sansa could remember the exact feeling of her heart stopping in her chest (figuratively, as Dany had pointed out when Sansa’d relayed the story to her). Even then, Margaery had seemed otherworldly, so graceful, so elegant, floating above everyone and everything like the world was her court. When she’d told Dany, Dany had pointed out that there was a difference between Sansa being in love with Margaery and Sansa being in love with the idea of Margaery, with the desire to be Margaery, with everything Margaery represented in her mind, and Sansa had clung to that difference for two years until she’d wound up with Margaery naked in a king bed at the Palace and been unable to distinguish between the two any longer.

“Sansa. Sansa Stark. Jesus H. Christ, Sansa.” Sansa blinked, and realized Dany’s face was millimeters from her own. “We seriously need a plan of attack for this shit, Sansa. You can’t just ignore her like you did at the funeral.”

“That was a totally inappropriate venue for that type of conversation!” Sansa exclaimed. “I wasn’t ignoring her, I was maintaining a sense of decorum.”

“Ooookayyyy,” said Dany. Sansa could almost see her replaying Sansa’s evasion techniques from the day before over in her head. “But you ignoring Margaery’s four calls last night? Totally ignoring her.”

Sansa rolled her eyes.

“You need to call this bitch,” Dany told her.

Sansa sighed. “I’ll call her tonight,” she promised. “I’ll—I dunno, I’ll plan something out and call her—“

“No, I mean you need to call her right now,” said Dany. “Like, right this second, which is now five seconds ago but will be closer to thirty by the time I’m done talking.”

Sansa rolled her eyes again. “Dany, it’s the morning. I shouldn’t call until, at the very least—“

“It’s one in the afternoon,” Dany told her.

“Fuck,” said Sansa. She poured herself four mimosas in quick succession.

Dany raised an eyebrow. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Sansa poured and chugged a fifth mimosa.

“Oh my God, Sansa, you’re going to be hammered before you’re even dressed at this rate.”

Sansa made doe eyes at Dany. “I know. Friends don’t let friends drunk dial.” She could already feel the champagne warming her veins. Or maybe that was just smugness.

Dany rolled her eyes, grabbed Sansa’s phone from four feet away, touched the screen a few times, and held it to her ear.

Sansa felt her stomach drop. “What—what are you doing?”

Dany ignored her. “Hi—Margaery?” she said, her voice bright, and Sansa lunged for her. “Hey—it’s Dany, Dany Tar—“

“Shutupshutupshutupshutup—“

“—of course I know you haven’t forgotten me, don’t be stupid, you could know other Danys, is all—“

“Fuck yourself forever and ever amen—“

“—oh my God, no. Don’t worry. Sansa got totally hammered last night, so I confiscated her phone as a good Samaritan She didn’t even know you were calling her—yeah, she was already tipsy after the reception and we just kept drinking all night—“

“Hang the fuck up, Dany, I swear to God—“

“Drinks at the Tribeca Grand?” Dany managed to shove Sansa off of where they were wrestling on the floor, and offered her an exaggerated wink. “That sounds perfect. We’ll meet you at, like, eight? … Yeah, for sure, I’m still in town for a couple more days. Yep. For sure. Love you too. Peace out.” She shoved the phone back into Sansa’s awaiting hands. “Who is the greatest best friend-slash-wingwoman in the world?”

“Fucking die in a hole,” Sansa told her. Dany cackled.

. . .

Sure enough, Sansa was drunk before they even got changed. At two-thirty, Dany put her to bed, and the next thing she knew it was six-o’clock and Dany and Arya were both jumping on the bed to wake her up. She kicked them both in the shins and they rolled off.

“Why did she get drunk at one anyway?” she heard Arya asking Dany.

“She wanted to avoid making a phone call on the basis of the drunk dialing appendix in the bro code,” Dany told her sagely.

Sansa could practically hear Arya rolling her eyes. “Ugh, why would that make any difference, anyway? It’s not like Joff has listened to a single thing she’s said since they started dating.”

For the second time that day, Sansa felt her stomach drop. _Joffrey_. After the Margaery disaster, Sansa had finally responded to Joffrey’s advances. It had all made sense in her head—date the golden boy, act like the golden girl, sit on a throne of Louboutins and maybe the whole fucking-your-best-friend thing would go away.

Spoiler alert: it hadn’t.

The worst part was that the worst part wasn’t that Sansa was hopelessly in love with a girl, it was that said girl danced through life like a fairytale princess, and Sansa was the stupid awkward prince who’d fallen head-over-heels with a girl who’d never found a potential love interest she wouldn’t trade for an especially good manicure.

Sansa could just see how it would all go; they were “fooling around”, Margaery “just liked kissing people, any people, and sex is _fun_ ”, and hey, she’d so be down to do it again sometime, boys could be a pain to sneak in anyway. Margaery would be so completely chill about it, and Margaery would be so completely not in love with Sansa that it might just kill her.

“Hey, queen of bad decisions!” Arya called at her. “Do you need us to jump on your bed again?”

Sansa groaned, burying her head in her pillow.

“You’ve got like, an hour and a half to do your makeup and pick an outfit, kid,” Dany told her. “So, like, get on it.”

It was with extreme reluctance that Sansa finally climbed out of bed and made her way to her closet.

“I have literally nothing to wear,” she announced, but of course nobody believed her.

“Where are you going, anyway?” Arya asked. “There’s no way you’re going out with Joff with Dany third wheeling. Is it Margaery?” Sansa’s silence was answer enough. “Seriously, what is going on with you two? I covered for you yesterday, I deserve to know.”

“It’s not important,” Sansa said. “It’s just—“

“Don’t give me that,” said Arya, scowling. “Wait, did you get drunk so you wouldn’t have to call Margaery? What is going on? Did she do something to you?”

“When she left, we were just on—really, really, really weird terms,” said Sansa. She walked forward into her closet, and started to peruse the racks of closing. “It’s not even worth getting into, I swear.”

“You’re literally caressing your shortest miniskirt,” Arya pointed out. “It’s totally worth getting into. If she was an asshole to you, you gotta tell me, I have to know if I have to hate her now—“

“Don’t!” exclaimed Sansa, dropping the miniskirt and rushing back to Arya. “Don’t treat her any differently if you see her. God, Arya—“

“Okay, okay, whatever,” said Arya, rolling her eyes. “Be that way. Fine.” She walked out of the room, and Sansa sighed.

“So!” said Dany, her voice way too peppy. “What are you going to wear?”

Despite how desperately Sansa did not want to be going out that night, she couldn’t be too bummed about getting to pick out an outfit. She picked out a tight leather skirt and paired it with a long sleeved white Alice + Olivia blouse, complete with one of those Peter Pan collars she could never resist. She wore her hair straight down her back, painted her nails blue and red before finally settling on gold, and zipped up a pair of Jimmy Choo cage boots. Sansa almost always wore demure pink lipstick, but tonight, she pulled out a bold red color that would’ve made Taylor Swift proud.

The hardest part of any outfit was, of course, picking out the right handbag to go with it. Most of Sansa’s bags were classics, with the exception of a couple of bigger boho totes or edgy clutches. She settled on a black Chanel, and looked herself over in the mirror.

Dany walked up behind her, clad in a red high-low skirt and a tight black bandeau. Even if Sansa had asked, she wouldn’t have recognized the brand.

They slid into the limo, Dany grinning manically and Sansa scowling.

“This is gonna be a fucking shitshow,” Dany said. Sansa smacked her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that I've introduced most of the POVs, I'll be doing more single-character chapters. 
> 
> I'm sorry this took so long to update! Please let me know what you think of anything and everything- I've never written ASOIAF fanfic before, so critique is totally welcome! And make sure to visit my at my tumblr, threecankeepasecret!


	4. don't you forget about me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spotted: B and J, getting drinks at the Tribeca Grand. Just what are they talking about so intensely? Could it be more drama with C? And is it a coincidence that, just twenty feet over, S and M are having their not-so-touching reunion?

Brienne drummed her fingers along the counter of the bar, all the while keeping her eyes trained on the door. She hadn’t known what to think when she’d received Jaime’s text, and truth be told, she still didn’t have a clue.

His text had asked her to meet him at 8:00, but military boarding school meant that Brienne was always running early for everything, so there she was, at ten to eight, at the bar of the Tribeca Grand, sipping at a gin and tonic and sitting five seats away from a perfectly coiffed Margaery Tyrell.

Brienne didn’t really know Margaery, though she spent a good deal of time with her brother, especially in university, so it wasn’t as though she’d never met the girl, and it would be rude not to say hi. On the other hand, this was Margaery, the most glamorous teenager in Manhattan, who was probably waiting for an equally glamorous group of friends— _or maybe even a date_ , thought Brienne, _she looks even more done up than usual_ —and would likely not appreciate a woman ten years her senior intruding on her night out.

Brienne took another sip of her drink, and cringed inwardly. What was she doing? She was not, absolutely not, going to be intimidated by a seventeen-year-old girl. She was just about to stand up when Margaery’s head spun around.

“Brienne!” she exclaimed, extended her hand with such grace Brienne had half a mind to kiss it, like some sort of medieval knight. “Come sit with me, Brienne. It’s been _forever_.”

Brienne dutifully picked up her drink and walked over, and Margaery flung her dainty arms around Brienne’s thick neck, planting kisses on both of her cheeks.

“I was just about to come over and say hello,” said Brienne.

“Well, you should have come sooner!” Margaery told her, pouting. She swallowed the rest of her martini, her olive along with it, and gestured to the bartender for another. “It’s marvelous to see you, I’ve been out of town for, like, ever. How have you been? How’s—how’s work?”

“It’s work,” said Brienne, as Margaery grinned at the server and gratefully took her second drink. Margaery had always been funny that way, behaving like some sort of quasi-adult even when Brienne had first met her at the tender age of twelve, but while a girl like Margaery would have awed Brienne when she was in high school, as an adult, Brienne thought she still seemed terribly young. “I’ve been well, thanks, yourself?”

Margaery took another gulp of her martini. “Oh God,” she said, with a little affected gasp, “Brienne, the stories you hear about boarding school? They’re not even a tiny bit false. It’s been absolutely insane, I can’t even tell you.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” asked Brienne, smiling to herself.

Margaery grinned back at her. “In a good way, at first,” she said. “It’s absolutely wild, but…” She shrugged. “I don’t know, Brienne, I can’t even really say. I had my fun while it lasted, but by the time I left I was more than ready to go.”

She sounded like a regular Daisy Buchanan, Brienne thought to herself, except instead of being vapidly glamorous Margaery seemed to be desperately reaching for an air of adult sophistication.

“You must be glad to be back in the city,” said Brienne. “Planning a big night out? Or are you waiting for a date?”

Margaery had always responded well to teasing, but to Brienne’s surprise, she went beet red, and seemed to choke on her martini. After a few undignified coughs, Margaery shook her head. “No, no, just a good friend. Um. Sansa Stark, actually?”

“Oh, of course,” said Brienne. Margaery was still flushed, so Brienne took pity on her. “Sounds like you’ve got a better night in store than I do, unfortunately. I’m here to meet a colleague of mine.”

Margaery swallowed, looking slightly healthier. “Oh, do I know them?”

Brienne’s eyes travelled to the door, where Jaime was walking in, lacking his usual swagger. “Yes,” she said simply, standing up.

. . .

She sat down across from Jaime at the table he’d plopped himself down at, raising an eyebrow when he didn’t address her. She rolled her eyes. “I’m doing great, thanks for asking. And yourself?”

Jaime offered her a wry smirk, but it lacked its usual cockiness. “Terribly, no thanks to present company.”

Brienne took a sip of her drink, watching him. When he didn’t say anything else, she planted her glass on the table and leaned forward. “Okay, seriously, Jaime, what is going on?”

Jaime didn’t meet her eyes. “I need your help,” he told her.

“Okay,” said Brienne, watching the way his fist was clenching. “What is it?”

Jaime took a breath. “I think my sister—“ he paused, suddenly, and looked over her shoulder. “Hang on. Was that the Tyrell brat you were talking too?”

Brienne sighed. “I’m not sure you you’re referring to,” she told him, “seeing as that’s what you call all of the Tyrells, including Olenna Redwyne.”

Jaime scoffed. “The girl. The daughter. Maggie, or whatever.”

She knew full well that he knew Margaery’s name. “Yes, that’s her.”

Jaime offered a low whistle. “Who’s she meeting, that she’s dressed like that? Kid’s younger than Joffrey.”

“Sansa Stark,” said Brienne.

Jaime laughed, raking his good hand through his hair. “Please. She’s more likely to be waiting for Sansa’s brother, dressed like that.”

“Dressed like what?” demanded Brienne. “What do you think you’re doing, ogling some teenage girl, anyway? And why is it any of your business what she’s wearing?”

Jaime held up his hands—well, his hand and his stump. “Hey, hey, I’m not casting judgment,” he said. “I’ve been with—Cersei’s been my sister all my life. I know better than to judge a woman for how she dresses, don’t misinterpret me.”

Brienne huffed, and Jaime continued.

“All I’m saying is that, my impression by the way she’s dressed is that she’s not just meeting a friend. Don’t get your shit upside down, Tarth.”

_Not just a friend_. Brienne was loath to make assumptions based on what girls were wearing, but by the way Margaery had blushed, Jaime’s guess might have been spot-on.

“Well, fine,” she said. “What were you saying about your sister?”

Before she’d even finished speaking, Jaime was waving his stump in her face. “Don’t say that so loudly!” he whispered. “Do you want the whole world to know my struggles?”

Brienne rolled her eyes.

“It’s about Cersei,” Jaime said, and Brienne resisted the urge to say _oh, really, I hadn’t guessed_.

“She’s got—I mean, she does—“ Jaime sighed, raking his good hand through his hair. “You know Cersei’s always been paranoid.”

Brienne raised an eyebrow.

“Really paranoid,” Jaime allowed. “The thing is, I think she’s—I think she’d done something bad—“

Jaime took a deep, shuddering breath, and Brienne felt her heart speed up. Jaime was never this worked up about anything. He leaned forward, and spoke in a low, rapid tone.

“Jon Arryn may have worked for the stupidest man in the city, but he wasn’t an idiot. He knew things. Secrets. And I—I don’t know, Cersei thought he knew about—about something she really didn’t want getting out. And maybe I’m just making this up, I don’t have any proof, or, or any—“

“Hold up,” said Brienne, unable to help herself. “You think Cersei—you think she—“

“Don’t you dare say it,” said Jaime. His voice was steel.

“I won’t,” she promised, and immediately regretted giving her word so easily. But it was hard not to, not when Jaime’s eyes were darting around like a wild animal’s and his crisp white shirt was soaking through with sweat. He looked like he wanted to cry.

“I know Cersei is rash, and paranoid, and—kind of intense—“

“Kind of?”

Jaime shot her another scathing look. “She’s my sister,” he said. The words sounded heavy in his mouth. “She’s my twin. She’s _Cersei_. She—“

Jaime stopped speaking, his eyes widening as he stared at some point over her shoulder. She turned around. Sansa Stark had just walked in, looking just as done up as Margaery, but she was accompanied by a diminutive blonde girl who seemed vaguely familiar to Brienne. She was dressed in black leather and red silk, and her hair was white and gold and silver all spun together, and—

“Holy shit,” whispered Jaime, as Brienne locked eyes with Daenerys Targaryen.

. . .

Sansa looked so devastatingly stunning that Margaery forgave her immediately for arriving half an hour late. Her auburn hair was shimmering and sleek, her lashes thick and black, and her legs miles long under her tight leather skirt. Margaery hopped up from her seat and met her in two high-heeled steps, planting kisses on both her cheeks, and then on Dany’s. Dany returned the gesture, but her eyes were trained elsewhere, and Sansa didn’t return the gesture at all.

Margaery frowned, just for an instant. Sansa was her best friend, it wasn’t like nine months could change that. Sansa was probably worried about something else. Dany’s life wasn’t easy, maybe something was going on with her brother, maybe that’s why the two of them were distracted. She grinned again, bouncing in her YSLs.

“It’s so, so good to see you!” she said, lacing her fingers together behind Sansa’s waist and pulling her into a hug. “I’ve missed you wicked, doll.” She buried her face into Sansa’s long hair. “Mmm, you smell nice. Did you change perfumes?” She pulled back, and pressed a finger to Sansa’s lips with a coy smile. “No, hang on, I’ve got this. Umm… Burberry Brit?” Sansa had always been a stickler for Miss Dior. “Why the sudden change?”

“It’s been eight months!” Sansa said, her tone a little wild. “It’s not exactly sudden!”

Margaery ignored the voice in the back of her head telling her that there was something massively off about Sansa’s attitude, and moved on to Dany. “And you!” she exclaimed, threading for fingers through Dany’s spun gold hair, “look at you! Did you actually grow?”

Dany would usually have stuck out her tongue and thrown back a witty retort. Instead, she kept her eyes trained in the distance, and shrugged.

Margaery followed her line of sight. “Oh, do you know Brienne?” she asked, smiling. “She’s lovely, really. She and Loras and Renly were great friends in university, and she’s really a sweetheart. She used to drive me to tennis practice when my parents were out of town.”

Dany shrugged again, her eyes still locked on target. Margaery swallowed. Why were Sansa and Dany being so weird? It was Dany who had called to make plans, after all.

_It’s been eight months_ , Sansa had said. This was true. It was a little awkward, that Margaery hadn’t called even once, though to be fair Sansa hadn’t made any efforts _and_ Margaery had made a point of liking every single one of Sansa’s instagrams.

Booze, Margaery thought, struck by inspiration. Booze would make everything better. Booze was always the answer.

She gestured towards the new bartender, who had just started his shift and had not fielded her previous drinks. “I’d love another martini, please,” she said, taking a few steps forward. “Gin, straight up, dirty.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder and glanced at Sansa and Dany, then grinned. It may have been eight months, but she still knew them better than anyone. She just needed them to remember. She shot a grin at the bartender.

“This gorgeous redhead will have a glass of champagne with a shot of elderflower liqueur,” she said, and then shot a wicked grin over at Sansa, who rather than smiling had turned pink, “and the stunning blonde over there will have a Mojito, heavy on the rum and light on the mint. Thanks, doll!”

The bartender offered her a condescending look. “ID, please?”

Clearly he was new. Margaery tilted her head back and laughed the soft champagne bubble sound she’d perfected, and then grabbed a copy of Vanity Fair out of her purse, flipped it to this month’s feature about her family, and slid it across the table. “This should do,” she told him sweetly.

He shot a glance at it, and looked back up at her, his eyes wide. Not just new to the Grand, but new to Manhattan, it would seem. “Right away, miss,” her told her.

Margaery slipped back onto her barstool, and smiled at Sansa. “Figured you needed an apérétif before the real drinking starts,” she told her.

_Finally_ , Sansa smiled back. It was small and shy, but in Margaery’s mind it was accompanied by a choir of angels. “You’re already on your third dry martini, doll,” she said. The words didn’t have their usual affection, but it was the best Margaery had gotten out of her thus far. “I think the real drinking has started.”

At this, Dany finally tore her eyes away from Brienne’s table and snorted. “That’s rich, coming from the girl who got so drunk on Mimosas today I had to put you to bed at one.” Sansa turned pink, and Dany laughed. “Not your finest hour, dude.”

Margaery grinned. Now _everything_ made sense. Sansa was hungover! Sansa had never coped well with hangovers, either. Once she drank it off, she’d be totally fine.

The bartender arrived, ducking his head apologetically as he scooted each of their drinks across the bar surface. Margaery reached for hers and clinked glasses with Sansa, who thankfully remembered to look in her eyes, and Dany, who had turned her attention to the back of the bar again and totally forgot.

“Dany!” Margaery squealed. “Oh my _god_ , Dany, you have to make eye contact when you cheers or it’s seven years of bad sex! Have I taught you nothing?”

She shot a look at Sansa, who was sure to be in agreement over the terrible scandal. Sansa had turned beet red instead—had Sansa forgotten the rule as well?

“Not necessarily with the person you’re cheers-ing with!” Margaery said. She took a long sip out of her glass, and then grinned at Sansa. “Though sometimes it is,” she said.

She had expected Sansa to laugh, or just blush more, but instead Sansa paled, set down her glass, and walked out to the bathroom, her head ducked down. Margaery watched her leave, then turned towards Dany.

“What did I say?” she asked.

Dany snorted. “That you had terrible sex with her?”

“What?” Margaery felt like her brain was going to burst out of her head. “That’s not what I was saying at all!”

“So you had good sex with her?” Dany asked, with a hint of her usual sarcasm.

Margaery laughed to cover up the churning of her stomach. She didn’t know if Dany was just being cheeky or if she knew what had happened between she and Sansa, but she hoped it was the former. She shouldn’t have cared, of course—she was always bragging about her latest conquest—and she definitely should have been laughing about she and Sansa, making quips about how the two of them were so hot it defied sexual orientation, but for some reason she wanted to keep that night buried into the deepest part of her heart—at least until she and Sansa could have a conversation about it.

“Oh, Dany,” she said, laughing. “You’re incorrigible.” She bumped her shoulder against the other girls’, and laughed again. “So how was Ultra?”

Dany took another gulp, looked off at Brienne’s table again, and then seemed to nod to herself. She then turned toward Margaery and jumped into a story about raving all night and being escorted home by the dealers in some gang she had friends in, and how she had to drug Viserys with sleeping pills to get out for the second day. Margaery was laughing hysterically by the time Sansa walked back out of the bathroom and resumed her seat at the bar. Her soft lips were their natural pink rather than dark red, and Margaery couldn’t stop staring at them as she took a long gulp from her glass. Girls had great mouths.

“So, Margaery,” said Sansa, setting her now-empty drink down on the bar surface, “did you have terrible sex with all the guys at boarding school, too?”

“Sansa!” said Dany, setting down her glance with a thud. Margaery looked from Sansa to Dany and back again, the world passing before her eyes like liquid. She pressed her eyes shut and took another long sip from her martini.

Because when you’re so tipsy you accidentally get in a fight with your best friend, drinking more is always the answer.

“Is that what got you kicked out?” asked Sansa. Her lips were curling as she spoke, and Margaery kept her eyes trained on them. They were lovely, even curved with disdain. “And to think, it wasn’t even worth it. Was it awful for them, too? Did you even bother to check? Or did you just float over to the next lay without a thought for the person you left in your bed?”

“That’s it,” said Dany, standing up. “We’re leaving, Sans.” She grabbed Sansa’s wrist and pulled her off her chair.

“Enjoy the next six years,” Sansa said. She yanked her arm out of Dany’s grasp and strode out of the restaurant. Dany looked after her, helplessness inscribed on every line in her face, and then followed.

“Wait!” called Margaery, and Dany spun around. Just watching her made Margaery dizzy. “Are you going back to Miami?” she forced out. “Will I see you before you leave?”

Dany paused, and shot a glance over at the table where Brienne was sitting. Her upper lip seemed to rise up a bit. “Yeah,” she said, forming the words with loving care, “yeah, I think I’ll be staying around.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here you go! May come back and edit this later, but I wanted to get it to you ASAP after making you wait so long!
> 
> Please let me know what you think-- and whose POVs you want more of! I haven't finalized who is in the next chapter yet, so let me know!


	5. only in your dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spotted: M taking back her party girl crown, no S in sight. Meanwhile, rumor has it D might be sticking around town for a while. Looks like more than one exiled queen is looking to take back her throne.

The minute they entered the limo, Sansa dived into Dany’s lap, taking deep, shuddering breaths as Dany stroked her hair.

“Dany,” Sansa gasped out. “How does she—she doesn’t even—“

“She didn’t mean it that way and you know it,” said Dany, keeping her voice low and soothing. “She made a bad joke and you took it the wrong way.”

Sansa stopped moving, but didn’t remove her head from Dany’s lap. The car pulled forward into New York traffic. “Well, she should have explained herself right away.”

“Right,” said Dany, pulling her fingers through a rare tangle in Sansa’s coiffed locks. “Because you expressed yourself so clearly.”

Sansa sat up. “Who’s side are you on, Dany?” she asked. “Now you’re defending her?”

“I can’t exactly condemn her when she doesn’t even know you’re in a fight, can I?” Dany said. The words echoed in her head, taunting, but Dany ignored them. It wasn’t the same, she told herself. Jaime Lannister knew they were in a fight, had been in a fight since the day he’d pulled the trigger and killed Rhaegar. The hand he’d held the gun with was gone, true, but he was still the same piece of shit he’d always been.

“She should know we’re in a fight! And what does it matter, I can’t sit around hanging out with her when she—when she—“ Sansa gulped. “How many guys do you think she’s fucked since we last saw her?” Sansa made some wild gesture. “I haven’t even _touched_ anyone—“

“Joffrey,” said Dany.

Sansa rounded on her. “That’s not fair,” she said, blue eyes glinting fiercely.

“You’re not being fair to her,” replied Dany. “What do you know about how she feels? As far as she can tell, you’ve had a serious boyfriend the entire time since she left, and she hasn’t dated anyone. She didn’t even take a date to prom.”

“How do you—“

“Right, like _you_ haven’t stalked every one of her photos.”

Sansa blushed. “That’s not—that’s different,” she said. “Listen, I just—“

Dany groaned. “God, I wish I could punch my younger self in the face. Taking you out hungover to an already drunk Margaery was a terrible idea.” She surveyed Sansa carefully. “Seriously, though, you two need to sort your shit out.” She sighed, pulled Sansa’s phone out of the purse, found Margaery in the contacts. “Margaery? No—no, it’s Dany, I just—Sansa’s really hungover, you’re drunk—yeah, both of you get good night’s sleeps and I’ll make sure she’s at our spot in the park at five tomorrow.”

. . .

Margaery groaned when her alarm went off the next morning, then leaned off her bed, scrambling blind through her black Chanel until she found her phone, just as Taylor Swift was singing about love being a game. She hit her screen three times in quick succession, but the damage was done. She was already awake.

Margaery was generally excellent at lounging around in bed for hours on end, but her head was already pounding too hard for her to do anything but go on a hunt for advil. She rolled out of bed, slipping her feet into woolen slippers and pulling her sleep mask off her eyes. She grabbed the silk robe draped over her chair and slipped it over her shoulders, tying a neat bow at the waist. Then, bracing herself, she pushed open the bathroom door and turned on the lights.

It probably hadn’t been wise of her to keep drinking all night until Sansa left, but she hadn’t known what else to do, hurt from Sansa’s words and anxiety over Dany’s phone call tingling in the pit of her stomach. Once she was well and drunk, she’d pulled out her phone, scrolling through her contacts until she found Arianne Martell.

“Ari?” she’d said, after Ari picked up on the fourth ring. “Where are you?”

Arianne, being Arianne, was at some club in Chelsea that vaguely rang a bell. Margaery did a shot, tipped too well, then strode out of the Grand and hailed the first cab that came her way.

The club had been loud and dark, and the bouncer had recognized her on sight. Ari greeted her with shots of—Margaery really didn’t know, something sweet—and introduced her to the crowd of NYU students she was there with. Margaery hadn’t cared to remember any of their names. At one point in the night, she’d let one of the boys lead her across the dance floor to a wall on the back corner, had kissed him back when he’d kissed her, but even through the heat and the haze Sansa’s words had flashed through her mind and Margaery had pushed him away with a muttered “I can’t do this.”

It was about 2:00 AM when she’d left the club, having called her limo service so she didn’t have to take a cab that late. She’d held back her vomit the whole ride home and all the way up the elevator, but had only made it to the guest powder room in the lobby before puking. She was a very quiet puker, thanks to years of practice, and once it was all out she’d stumbled up the stairs to her room and collapsed onto her bed.

She stared at herself in the mirror. She was still in last night’s dress—ew. She stripped it off right away, then washed her raccoon-eyed face and brushed her still-pukey teeth, gargling three times with mouth wash, and then finally swallowed three extra strength advil for good measure. She threw her robe and underwear over the ledge of the bathtub and clambered into the shower on the other end of the room, relishing the hot water on her scalp, making sure to exfoliate like her life depended on it.

Once she was nice and clean and towel-dried and rose-scented, she pulled on a nightgown—a cute one, dark green Fleur’t chemise with a lacy racerback—and pulled back on her black Cosabella robe. She slipped on her slippers again and, after rubbing on a little moisturizer, made her way downstairs.

Garlan was sitting at the kitchen counter, reading a newspaper and drinking coffee, which made absolutely no sense seeing as he and Leonette lived together when they weren't at Duke. “Oh, thank god you’re up, I was about to come wake you myself,” he said upon seeing her. “The Nespresso machine is on.”

Margaery made herself a latte, trying not to wince at the noise. “What are you doing here?” she said. “Trouble in paradise? And excuse me, it’s eight-thirty, I’m up plenty early.”

She heard the sweeping sound of him slapping down the newspaper. “You forgot?” he asked. Margaery turned around, gesturing at him with her coffee mug as if to say, _what?_ “It’s the photoshoot today,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “For _The_ _Spyder_? God, Grandmother must have talked your ear off about it.”

Oh, shit. Now she remembered.

 _The Spyder_ was a gossip rag disguised as a classy magazine, stocked next to _Vanity Fair_ and _Rolling Stone_ and _Time_ but sharing half of it’s page space with the same faces that crowded Page 6 and _Hello!_ It was a distinguished who’s who of the wealthy Manhattanite scene, a mix of profiles, in-depth social web analysis, and a website with a live spotted map for anyone on the A-list.

Naturally, Margaery appeared on all three, all the time.

Or she had, at least, before boarding school. She cringed, and pulled up the site on her phone.

Just as she’d expected.

 

_Socialite Queen Out To Reclaim Her Crown?_

_Not two days after her reemergence on the Manhattan scene (Jon Arryn’s funeral, see link) Margaery Tyrell seems to be right back to her old ways. After being spotted with Sansa Stark and Daenerys Targaryen (another exiled princess making her grand return? see link), Margaery was seen rubbing shoulders with fellow heiress Arianne Martell at The Sandship last night, clearly looking a little worse for the wear._

_Could her reunion with Sansa Stark (unfortunately not pictured, though sources say it was less than friendly) have been the spark to send Margaery back to her old ways? After all, ever since Margaery left the city, Sansa’s been the undisputed princess of the Upper East Side. Or Margaery she the same bad girl at boarding school that we know and love? After all, Sansa may hold her ground, but she’s never been the reckless partier Margaery is. She’s a fine princess, but every kingdom needs a queen._

_Only time will tell if Margaery’s come back badder than ever. After all, in her absence the Tyrells have slipped further under the radar than ever before, even with Loras’s very public relationship with Renly Baratheon still making headlines. In the meantime, look out for our feature on the Tyrell family in next month’s_ The Spyder _, where we’ll be sure to get you some answers._

 

Margaery sighed. “Have you—“

“—seen the new article yet? Yes, of course I have,” said Garlan, opening his newspaper again. “You don’t have to be so worried, though. Trust me, there’s been worse.”

Margery rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but this is my first appearance since getting back. Grandmother will kill me.”

Garlan laughed. “Well, there’s always that. We’re leaving at nine-thirty.”

Margaery didn’t have to be made up or dressed well for a photoshoot—there were people to take care of that—so she grabbed a low-fat yogurt from the fridge and carried it up to her room with her coffee. The only thing she had to worry about was not bloating before the photos were taken. Photoshop was great, but if she looked any bigger in person people would talk.

She scrolled through _The Spyder: Online_ until quarter past, then pulled on skinny jeans and black UGGs, and a cute Joiesweater, just in case she was photographed on the way to the studio.

She checked her phone every five minutes the whole time, but not a word from Sansa.

. . .

Lucky for Margaery, the actual interviews for the spread weren’t until next weekend, so she didn’t have to answer any questions. She was too distracted to hold a conversation, anyway. This whole deal felt like a Kardashian Christmas card, all three generations of her family posing on some set of a staircase that led to nowhere.

Grandmother was looking matriarchal in a gold Vivienne Westwood gown at the top of the staircase; Mother and Father were posed together a step below her, her green dress matching his green tie, and on the steps below the boys were all wearing forest green dress shirts with their suits. Margaery was on the bottom step, draping herself over the railing, leaning on her elbows, dressed in glorious gold Dior, her hair in delicate, loose curls over one shoulder. The bookended color symbolism was pretty obvious, but Margaery thought it was all going to look fantastic when it was printed.

Then came the individual photos. Margaery posed in black Alexander McQueen, white Dolce and Gabbana, a short black-and-white Roberto Cavalli alone, then in black Armani with her grandmother, in a cute little Alice & Olivia with her brothers, and then with Loras in a little green Herve Leger, for what she was sure to be a page about the two of them and their partying profile.

By the end of the ordeal, Margaery was completely exhausted. She checked her watch. _4:30_. Shit.

“I’m slipping out now,” she told Loras, who offered her a bemused grin.

“Hot date?” he said, eyeing her slouchy ensemble.

“Sansa,” said Margaery, pulling on her UGGs.

Loras quirked an eyebrow. “So… yes?”

Margaery scoffed. “Don’t be like that,” she said. “We’re… I don’t know, I think we’re fighting but I’m not sure what about. I just don’t want her to be mad at me.”

Loras laughed. “Right, this is Sansa we’re talking about. You’ll be fine.”

Margaery wasn’t so sure, but she left the building before any of the rest of her family could notice, and hailed a cab to Central Park.

She got out at the nearest Starbucks to the park, grabbing two pumpkin spice lattes and hoping they’d buy her goodwill.

Sansa was already at their spot in the park, alone, texting. Her red hair was straight, a vibrant shock of color against her black jacket, and she looked so stunning Margaery stopped to appreciate it, before Sansa could notice her.

“Hey,” she said, before sitting on the bench. Sansa looked up fast, blinking.

“Oh,” she said. “Hi.”

Margaery offered the latte, which Sansa accepted. They sat in silence for a few minutes.

“I’m really sorry about that joke I made last night,” Margaery said, the words bursting out of her. “I didn’t—I was tipsy, I was trying to be clever, it came out all wrong. I didn’t mean it the way I ended up saying it. I’m really sorry.”

Sansa’s lips trembled. “Okay,” she said, then bit her bottom lip. “Yeah, I’m… I overreacted, I guess. I’m sorry.”

Margaery smiled. “Friends?” she said, letting hope creep into her tone.

Sansa took longer than Margaery expected to smile, and say, “Yeah.”

. . .

_Reform in the Kingdom?_

_Word is that heiress Sansa Stark and longtime boyfriend Joffrey Baratheon have called it quits. The verdict is out on who dumped who, but sources tell us it was messy, and that the return of the illustrious Margaery Tyrell had more than a little to do with it. Does Joffrey have his sights set on Margaery? Or did Margaery convince Sansa that she could do better? After all, it’s been a poor kept secret for years that Joffrey wasn’t exactly a prince charming where his relationship with Sansa was concerned ( see link)_

_We’re all for girl power here at_ The Spyder _, but if those rumors are true, we have to worry about sweet Sansa. After all, ever since arriving back in the city Margaery’s been up to no good ( see link). Is she going to drag Sansa back down with her this time? Or is Sansa trying to keep Margaery on the right track? Be careful, Sansa: Margaery might love you like only a best friend can, but you can’t keep a bad girl down._

“Can you even believe this?” said Margaery when she finished reading the article. Sansa still had a few lines to read, but when she looked up she saw Margaery looked pretty pissed.

“Whatever,” said Sansa. It had only been a day since she and Joffrey had ended things. Their relationship had been shitty for a long time, but something about Margaery coming back made it feel _shameful_ to Sansa, to put up with Joffrey sleeping around and calling her names. She wanted Margaery to think she was better than that.

She tried not to let the thought make her blush.

“Seriously, though, good on you, Sans,” said Margaery. She looked better than ever in the school uniform, and Sansa couldn’t look for too long without feeling flustered, Margaery’s long, tanned legs in those knee-high socks, the crease of her white blouse against her cleavage. Sansa wanted to unroll those socks, to unbutton that blouse, to— “You can do way better than Joff,” Margaery was saying. “Seriously, I should set you up with someone. Willas is a little too old for you, but—“

“I’m gonna take a break from boys for a while,” said Sansa very quick.

Margaery shot her a sideways glance. “Good call,” she said. “You’re right, doll, they’re all useless. I’ll join you.” She laughed. “Besides, gorgeous as we are, why would we ever need anyone else?”

Sansa’s chest did that thing again where it when all warm, and felt like something was cutting off her air. She forced herself to laugh with Margaery, all the while thinking _yes, dammit_.

“So has Dany flown back to Miami yet?” asked Margaery as they turned into their classroom. “It sucks that she doesn’t live here full time—“

“You sure about that, bitch?” came a voice from the front row.

Sansa grinned. “Got held up at the front desk?” she asked Dany, who was sitting in a chair, blowing bubbles with bright pink gum. “What’s with the gum, anyway?”

Dany smacked it again. “Just for effect,” she said. She took it out of her mouth and threw it into a nearby garbage.

“Jesus H Christ,” said Margaery. “Dany, what the hell?”

“I may have moved in with the Starks,” she said with a grin. “Couldn’t get transferred in yesterday, but, well, here I am!”

Sansa had never seen Dany in the school uniform, despite having known her forever. She wore it in the most Dany way possible—Doc Martens on her feet, her socks rolled down, her tie loose and askew and her hair in a long fishtail braid with bright jewels somehow woven in.

Dany stuck out her tongue. “They’re rings,” she said. “Pretty good, huh?”

“I can’t believe you’re at school here,” said Margaery.

“I can’t believe you didn’t move back sooner,” said Sansa. “Seriously, I thought you had some excuse about not kicking the lion’s den, or something.”

“A, that’s not an expression,” said Dany, “and B, I’ve had a change of heart about the whole lion business.” She smiled, in that way Dany did sometime when she was thinking about something Sansa would definitely not have found funny.

It was all right that Dany was thinking of something else, though, because Sansa was in her own world too. She’d fought it tooth and nail, but there was no denying it: she had a crush on Margaery. That left her with two options: date Margaery, or get over her. And since there was no possible way that Margaery felt at all the same way, Sansa had to find a way to convince herself out of this.

Just then, Margaery leaned over and captured Sansa’s hand in hers, giving it a squeeze.

Sansa’s heart flip-flopped in her chest, and she swallowed.

This was going to take a lot of convincing.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys, I'm so sorry this took me so long. I lost a lot of my interest in ASOIAF for a while- I think I got burnt out- and college is killer. I hope you like this chapter, and I'll try to get the next one out soon!


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